“Yes.” Aaron bit his lip. After all, what she said was correct.
He’d be able to make all his dreams come true. Have the family and home and respect he’d longed for. Where he wasn’t just a drain on the community he loved. Where he’d finally feel like he truly belonged.
Well . . . An image of himself in the library, Isabelle’s hand in his, flashed in his mind, but he shook it away. That wasn’t belonging; that was lust.
And it would expire. At the stroke of midnight at the last festival, when she announced her marriage to Weiss.
He swallowed as a vision of Isabelle threading her fingers through his hair while he bent to kiss her sparked in his mind, followed by Weiss taking her gloved hand. His stomach clenched. Perhaps the change of scenery would be good for him.
“So when would I leave?” Aaron strolled to her side to offer his arm, even if she had too much pride and too much propriety to take it.
“After the last festival. When Miss Isabelle is set to wed.” She emphasized the last word as she struggled to her feet, waving Aaron off as usual. “Provided you consent. And there isn’t another place you’d rather be.”
“It doesn’t matter what I want. It’s what I need.” He stroked his beard. It was close enough to Lag BaOmer that he could justify shaving it before the next festival instead of Friday. After all, this was his last chance to get what he’d wanted from the start. And if it was his only chance to say goodbye, he should aim to look his best.
“Fair.” A sharp nod as Miriam hobbled toward the door. “America it is.”
“Yes.” Aaron strode after her so he could swing the thing open to reveal the night.
“I’ll send something special for the festival,” she called as she moved through the doorway and onto the cobblestones. “Even you deserve a little amusement once in a while.” She waved that hand again as if it could conjure something on her mere whim. “No one should sit in this much gloom.”
With that, she moved out into the darkness, leaving Aaron to stare and slink back into his cave to at least wash, if not think, because there was much to consider before the next week.
Isabelle swept the wide ribbons that dangled from the bottom of her new straw bonnet behind her shoulders. A little much. Especially with all the feathers, but something needed to balance out her voluminous upper sleeves.
Careful to avoid a rather large puddle, she slid around the back of the Duke’s Place synagogue toward the alley, smoothing her skirts. Purple wasn’t her favorite color, but in the sun, it did nice things for her eyes. Made the brown truly pop.
Yes, she had a hundred things to do before the last festival. But somehow, she’d found herself spending extra time on her powder and beeswax that morning, in addition to making sure her loops and curls shone.
Which was silly. Especially as she was supposed to be free from callers. A relief after spending endless hours in her drawing room the last few days, doing the usual dance.
Weiss and several other young men, not to mention all three Berab brothers, under the guise of needing to share “important information,” had shown up with gifts and sweets and pointed questions. So much smiling and nodding and trying not to let the world see the panic just below the surface.
But no, today she’d made sure everyone knew she, her grandmother, and Pena were visiting her father’s grave. And it wasn’t a lie nor inappropriate. After all, it was the anniversary of his death. So in addition to fasting, they’d traveled out past Whitechapel to Bancroft Road and laid a stone at his marker near the hazel tree.
Pena recited Kaddish while she stood and wished for a sign she’d not strayed from the path. But none came.
“You know, he’d want you to be happy,” Pena said as their carriage bumped westward, toward home. “That was what made him happiest in the world. Seeing you happy.”
“You made him plenty happy too,” her grandmother told the other man, reaching out and clutching his hand for a moment. “My son was lucky to have found you. I just hope my granddaughter is looking to your example.”
Isabelle shook her head. If only she had that luxury. What her father had achieved with Pena was available only under a very particular set of circumstances, ones that were certainly not present for her.
No matter how much she wanted them to be. Which was why she’d been working so hard not to let her mind go in certain directions and why she was going to need to be extra vigilant from now on. No matter how difficult.
“I will be very happy,” she assured them both, breathing in and out of her nose as deeply as possible. “Once I retain the company and our position in the community, continue his legacy. Though . . .” She bit her lip, not quite certain how to put the odd, unsettled feeling in her gut at ease. “Perhaps hosting three festivals is too much. Not that the idea was wrong, per se. But maybe my execution was not as perfect as it could be. Perhaps the gentiles will truly find us gaudy and gauche.”
“Would you like to cancel the last one?” Her grandmother narrowed her eyes. “As I have said from the beginning, this is about you. It’s your choice.”
“No.” Isabelle frowned as she rearranged her hands in her lap. “It’s too late. People will assume the business is weak and come for our clients. Or that there is something wrong with us—with me—which will leave no other options regarding marriage, and thus I’ll either be forced to live with a Berab brother or watch the Lira half of the company wither and die.” The gnawing in her stomach swelled in crescendo, and she pressed a hand against her bodice. “I must go through with the final festival and must marry.”
“I believe that things will turn out right for you.” Her grandmother leaned close. “Lira women are no one’s fool.” Her bony hand gripped Isabelle’s with firm assurance. “Our line has been marrying well for generations, and the streak will not end with you.”
And suddenly, her throat was tight and her voice was thick. Glancing out the window for an exit, she coughed a little. “I, um, think I’ll call upon Rebecca. Can you let me out?”
A reasonable request. And one that would do her good. After all, Rebecca was brilliant and loyal, and if there was anyone who could keep her from making a terrible mistake . . .
“Of course, darling,” her grandmother said, a small note of worry in her voice that Isabelle chose to ignore. “Tell her mother I said hello.”
